


The Forget-Me-Not Gallery

by kurgaya



Category: Bleach
Genre: Amnesia, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he wakes he doesn’t know where he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Forget-Me-Not Gallery

**Author's Note:**

> Well this is very different from what I usually write. For one, it's in present tense, and I honestly have no idea why I wrote it like that. It's also incredibly short, doesn't contain my OTP (or at least it doesn't explicitly), and was written in one sitting in the middle of the night. Woops.
> 
> Please note Ichigo is stated to be in a relationship during this fic, but the sex and identity of that person is completely ambiguous - hence the 'Other' category. Feel free to substitute whoever you like :3

When he wakes he doesn’t know where he is.

There is a bed beneath him; a perfectly plump pillow tickling his ears and sheets so pristinely – unnaturally – smooth that suggests somebody has delicately flattened out each and every crease with their hands. Whether through a silent declaration of compassionate or a pitiful display of anxiety can’t be falsified, nevertheless he still feels a twinge of guilt as he sits up and pushes the duvet away, rough, experienced hands folding it to the side. Feeling absolutely no need to rush despite the shadow of disorientation prickling in the corner of his sharp eyes, he gets up unsteadily, surprised that his bare feet complain at the demand to hold him up. Scowling instinctively with a huff, the man totters around the single bed and scans the small room he finds himself in – the walls are mostly bare, the door is shut but there doesn’t appear to be any form of lock, and there is a solitary window to the right.

The sight that greets his curious eyes is an endless night’s sky, void of stars and clouds or anything else that could hint at where he is, but as he wobbles to the left in search of a better view he catches a face in the glass – it is that of what he assumes to be a twenty-something year old man; young, but there are faint lines of stress and age from a fast maturity, with jagged, light hair somewhat obstructed by multiple streaks of white fabric wrapped across his forehead. The eyes are startled and the mouth a firm line that’s almost a frown – the sole occupant of the room wishes desperately for the face to smile into an expression much more fitting of the youth, though he cannot fathom quite why that thought comes to him.

The ghostly image in the glass twitches the corner of his lips up in accordance to the plea.

The watching man thinks with a gasp, _that’s my reflection_.

Then, _I don’t know who that is_.

And finally, _what happened to me?_

He forces himself to turn back around to the room, running his gaze frantically back over the dismally minimal furnishings for any clues as to the context of the nightmare he’s just woken into. There is nothing to note but a bedside table and a pair of straw waraji tucked neatly under the bed – he scrambles over to the unit, his muscles hissing and snarling with each step, and tears open the first drawer.

It is empty.

So is the second.

He slams it shut with his knee and then instantly regrets it when his exhausted body finally gives up and drops him to the floor. Hitting the floorboards with a pained ‘oof’ does little to knock his brain back into full comprehension, but it does allow him to spot a batted, old clipboard hanging discretely on the end of the bed frame. He crawls over and reaches for it with his stiff, gangly body, and just as he peels back the first sheet of paper for answers the only door to the room opens and somebody practically tumbles in with a cry.

“You’re up!” the newcomer says, her tone one that had almost lost all hope in ever saying those words. “Don’t move, I’ll go and get Captain Unohana!”

The child (she certainly looks short enough from his position on the floor) darts away faster than his eyes can grasp, leaving him staring halfway between the clipboard and the vacant doorway.

 _Helpful_ , he thinks cynically, but as he can’t be bothered to move he turns his attention back to the clipboard. He’s clearly in a hospital of some form – given the emptiness of the room, the bandage around his head, and the fact that he’s quite certain he’s forgotten everything about himself – and while he knows he should be kicking and screaming and crying in terror, he honestly feels too tired to worry about the uselessness of his brain at that moment. He’s not an idiot – whatever happened to him was terrible, yet the man he had seen in the window reflection had seemed strong, proficient, and hard-headed enough to bounce back from the brink of death, and that reassures him more than he truly understands. While he doesn’t really feel like he consists of any of those particularly noble characteristics, there is an inkling the back of his mind that strives to correct his doubts – a deep voice; wise, like a generous uncle – and he decides on a whim that if it’s his conscience talking then he’s perfectly alright with that.

The girl returns, then, still squealing something that hurts his ears, and her sudden presence brings a new face into his view. The woman leaning over him now has a terrifyingly calm expression on her motherly face, and she smiles in amusement with a shine to her eyes, as if his lying on the ground isn’t that much of a surprise. Uncertain if that’s a good thing, he waves the clipboard in her direction and says,

“Hello. Am I Ichigo Kurosaki by any chance?”

Somebody faints dead in the doorway.

“Ah,” says the woman, who he supposes must be this ‘Captain Unohana’ that was mentioned earlier. “This is a severe predicament that you’ve landed yourself into, isn’t it?”

The scowl drops back onto his face and Captain Unohana actually has the gall to chuckle.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” he snipes, wondering if he looks any more threatening than a kitten from his position. “And I’m not finding this funny.”

“Calm yourself Kurosaki-san,” she replies, lowering down to kneel beside him. “And I apologise – of course this isn’t something to laugh about. Now how about we return you to your bed and settle the confusion between us?”

Though she’s clearly trying to help, he cannot stop himself from blurting; “Somehow I think the amount of confusion between us is enough to write a book with.”

“Well,” says Unohana, helping him carefully to his feet. He protests weakly at the movement and drops the medical report in favour of grasping the bed sheets; she steadies him gently with firm yet kind hands. “All biographies must start somewhere.”

He imagines this is meant to be a joke, but the moment the last word leaves her lips her hands begin to glow a pale apple green. The pain in his bones eases instantly, a welcome relief.

He is screaming too loudly to notice.

 

 

When he wakes he doesn’t know who is sitting next to him.

It’s been two days since he met Captain Unohana, learned his name and that he has literally forgotten everything about everyone, and consequently blew up his room with something called _reiatsu_. In retrospect he - _Ichigo_ , he reminds himself, _your mother called you Ichigo_ – feels a curl of shame at the latter, though why is likely to be something he has forgotten, and isn’t sure he particularly wants to comes to terms with the second. He doubts that retrograde amnesia is something anybody ever really accepts into their lives, which is why he is grateful that everybody in the hospital – Fourth Division – is working around the clock to help him regain his memories.

The man sitting at his bedside is the first person Ichigo has encountered since waking to amnesia that isn’t of the Fourth Division. The signs are obvious – there’s no medical bag strapped to the man’s back, no clipboard, report, or medical equipment in his hands, and he is wearing a dark blue kimono instead of the standard black and white uniform Ichigo has seen doted on various men and women. Despite being sure of these facts Ichigo can stretch his deductions no further, so it’s with an embarrassed flush bright enough to illuminate his ginger hair that he asks the stranger who he is.

“Ichigo,” says the man. He has a deep voice, tired eyes, and a dark beard of stubble across his chin, yet Ichigo’s wounded mind cannot piece together this information to offer any assistance. Aged face falling dramatically upon realising this, the man sighs to himself and closes his eyes for a moment.

He’s not sure why, but Ichigo cringes involuntarily at the change.

The stranger shakes his head and then smiles wishfully, a stern, determined fire alighting in his eyes. “Forgotten your old man have you son?”

The remark is almost cheeky and something about it makes Ichigo want to cry and launch himself at the man at the same time.

Yet, surprising himself, he snorts instead. “’Old man’ my _arse_ ,” he snaps, but his tone is fond and the man – his father apparently, if his words are to be believed (Ichigo has had to rely on the goodwill and honesty of many, many people over the last two days; maybe he should actually go about getting that biography written) – jerks so hard he almost topples out of his chair. “What are you, six hundred and seventy four?”

He cannot explain where the number comes from. Moments like that, Ichigo has come to realise, happen incredibly often. Even if he isn’t entirely sure who he is talking to, or what they are talking about, miraculously there are times when his mouth just seems to know what to say; there’s no controlling his rapid tongue (not that he really wants to) and instead of accidentally offending everybody around him when he opens his mouth, his irrepressible words seem to bring hope and laughter.

It’s not a bad feeling.

“Uh,” says the man at his bedside. He scratches the back of his bird nest hair. “Yeah, actually.”

There is a pause.

“ _Huh_ ,” they breathe together.

 

 

When he wakes he doesn’t know if that’s a good thing.

A wretched, vile concoction is bubbling inside of his stomach like the poisonous brew of a Shakespearean witch, and Ichigo rolls out of the bed in desperate need of something to pacify the raging sickness. His body is mostly healed now – his legs do not groan with every movement and the bandages have been removed from his head – and while he has seen some fleeting flickers of past moments and unfamiliar faces behind his eyes, there has been little improvement in his mental state. Still, he slips out into the corridor and makes to go to the bathroom, but at the last minute changes his mind and heads in the general direction of the patient kitchen.

For the first week or so of his awakening he hardly left the confines of his room. He did venture out once – he had been feeling daringly adventurous that day – but only made it a few hallways down before collapsing under the strain of his body and thoughts, cursing wildly at his incompetence. The wise voice from before had whispered encouraging words to sooth his anger, though Ichigo had been left with the impression that he was also being laughed at by the voice of his conscience.

Whether the mocking laughter was one of the same as the calm murmurs he couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t know why he thought them to be different in the first place.

Really, he has gotten used to not knowing things.

Basic, everyday activities, however, he does seem to know. Innate behaviours such as talking, walking, eating, and sleeping are to be expected, but Ichigo also knows how to write, make tea, dress himself and the like – considering how amnesia actually works has never crossed his mind before (or at least, he doesn’t think it has) and so while he would never be able to pass as a psychological expert, Ichigo can only be glad that he is not completely helpless in this strange world he has found himself in.

The topic of shinigami had come up astoundingly quickly when he woke. Even now, after multiple explanations from multiple experts, Ichigo isn’t sure he truly understands the whole thing. He doesn’t like to admit this to anyone however – he did, once, the first time, and the admission had earned him such incredulous and pitiful looks that he kept further comments to himself now. Ichigo is aware that he is a shinigami and that he is a powerful one (it’s blatantly obvious), but honestly he doesn’t feel strictly like a hero - in fact, he just feels lost and alone and like he’s more trouble than he’s worth, in essence.

He wishes more than anything that his memories would return to him, if only so that his nameless friends and family can stop leaving his room heartbroken and disheartened. He may be unable to piece their relationships together but he hates to see them hurting just as much as they hate to see him broken – Captain Unohana assures him that bonds can be remade, but Ichigo can’t resist from telling himself that a knotted piece of rope is never as durable as its uncut original.

He reaches the kitchen without incident and sets about making himself a cup of tea. Yuzu – and that’s his sister, he _knows that_ – had left him some of his favourite blend the last time she had visited and since then he’s been drinking his weight in the stuff. She almost cried when he announced that he (still) enjoys the flavour; alterations in his personality had not been something that has ever occurred to him prior to that conversation. He personally doesn’t think he behaves strangely but how can he when he has nothing to compare to? For the most part he thinks he hasn’t changed drastically, though there have been times when he’s said or done something that he has instantly regretted upon discerning the dismayed look on the face of the person he was attempting to hold a discussion with. He apologised the first few times (unaware precisely what he was apologising for) until one of his friends noticed what was going on and drew him aside.

“There’s no need to apologise,” the person had said softly – had it been Captain Ukitake or Captain Hitsugaya? (No wait, he said he goes by ‘Tōshirō’, not ‘Captain Hitsugaya’). “Do not try to force yourself into fitting an image you think everybody else wants you to fit. Be yourself, we can ask for no more.”

Smiling around the teacup rim, Ichigo recognises that he is not the only one to have taken the advice to heart. His friends and family have stopped gazing at him in expectance for a certain display of behaviour or choice of words – it is a relief to know that they may be able to accept him for who he is now, though he still hopes to completely recover from his unknown trauma and acquire all of his missing memories again.

He sips the tea.

He knows from the bottom of his heart that there is more than just a whole Gotei Thirteen division waiting for his return.

 

 

When he wakes he doesn’t know how he could have possibly forgotten Zangetsu for even a _second_.

The zanpakuto spirit is waiting when Ichigo can finally slip into the sideways extravagance of his inner world, the picture of serenity and gazing across the cityscape with a composed air, yet the shinigami can feel his zanpakuto’s relief as clearly as he can feel his own threatening to erupt from his chest.

“Zangetsu,” he gasps, lying against the greyscale windows of one of the skyscrapers, probably looking much as he did when Captain Unohana found him some weeks ago, scrambling around in search of his name. “Oh _god_.”

There is a rich chuckle from beside him and suddenly the shadow-cloaked spirit is there, unkempt tangled hair, black sunglasses, and all. He doesn’t say anything apart from his wielder’s name – but it is enough for Ichigo, who folds an arm over his face with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” the shinigami grumbles, thinking of how lonely and _empty_ his other half must have been. “I’m so sorry.”

Zangetsu steps closer until the edge of his cloak is swaying against Ichigo’s chest.

“You remember me now,” he says, the sound filling Ichigo’s very core with a warm, happy fire. “That is what matters.”

They sit and talk for hours. It is almost like they are old friends who have years to catch up on, except Zangetsu knows everything there is about Ichigo, and Ichigo can still hardly scrape through a decent conversation. The spirit makes no comment, however, but to assure the other that his memories will find their way back, and at that Ichigo cannot help but ask;

“Do you know what happened to me?”

Zangetsu inclines his head and says nothing.

Ichigo simply nods.

They leave it at that for now.

 

 

When he wakes he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Months have passed – almost a year – and he is recovering slowly. He moved into the captain’s residence at the Fifth Division – _his division_ , and heaven forbid they were so happy to see him – a handful of months previously and successfully settled back into his life as captain. Some times are still a little challenging since he doesn’t have all of his memories, but as promised they come to him slowly, often when he least expects it. In a way he quite enjoys relearning everything about himself – which is crude when he thinks about it, but he’s got to enjoy something about his condition – but as the days tumble into weeks, and the weeks stretch into months, Ichigo is noticeably aware that there is something missing – something significant.

It is not until he wakes one unsuspecting morning to the early summer dawn and the smell of breakfast wafting in through the open window and turns, lazily, because there is no rush to complete his morning routine when he is the only occupant of the quarters, to greet his room with a yawn. It is then that he notices, after cracking his neck painfully and hearing his hollow’s sinful laughter, that there is something settled by the doorway that he vividly remembers not placing there the night before.

Admittedly it had been a long, exhausting day yesterday and there is always the possibility that he just simply forgot (funnily enough), so the captain crawls out of bed and pads across the room in nothing but his underwear to inspect the oddity.

It only grows more peculiar the closer he gets because, sitting there as innocently as they can muster, is a bouquet of baby-blue flowers.

Of all things.

Perplexed (and Ichigo has had many things to be perplexed about in the last year), the shinigami bends down and scoops them up, running his fingertips over the delicately small petals. There is no note of explanation to be seen as he searches around, and since he can’t imagine he would ever buy himself a bunch of flowers, someone must have delivered them during the night.

He… didn’t remember opening the door to anyone.

Yet they are flowers, not a bomb, and so Ichigo fetches something to keep them in. He has never maintained the habit of collecting vases, but there is one near his bed that is already filled with tulips and so he carefully makes room for the little blue flowers. They fit nicely together, he thinks, stepping back to admire the view with his utterly unfeminine perspective, and almost doesn’t think anything else of it until something metal catches the sunlight streaming in through the window.

He picks up the flowers again and his heart promptly bursts out of his chest.

They’re _forget-me-nots_.

 ** _Forget-me-nots_**.

And the ring tied to them is so painstakingly _familiar_ that he snatches it up without a second’s thought, slips it into his finger where it belongs without a moment’s hesitation, and crashes through his quarters without bothering to lock the door, put on a pair of shoes, or, in fact, get dressed at all.

His long-forgotten-but-oh-so-missed spouse is going to get a bit of a shock.

Ichigo honestly cannot say he minds at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
